Beyond the Rose
by Threedaysunrise
Summary: For thirty years Hagi has wandered but it was the centuries that had taught him to how to wait. And beyond a painted rose he learns of an age old tale that reminds him why he fights and why he possesses this impossible love. PreSeries


A/N: Yes I'm back with another Blood Plus oneshot, and I must say I'm rather proud of this one. It took me long enough to write. It was actually in production shortly after I posted twin shots, _Beauty of Stone _and _Holding Foolish Hope_ and has been sitting on my computer ever since.

Also I want to apologize in advance and to say in my defense that I'm not French . I've intertwined French words with the stories so if you, by chance, speak the beautiful language and see that I have in some way, shape, or form slandered it, please correct me.

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Beyond the Rose_ by Threedaysunrise_

_Disclaimer_: I do not own Blood Plus or anything pertaining to it. The side story though, is all mine.

_Summery:_ For thirty years Hagi has wandered but it was the centuries that had taught him to how to wait. And beyond a painted rose he learns of an age old tale that reminds him why he fights and why he possesses this impossible love. PreSeries

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Terms to refer back to:

C'est magnifique—_that is magnificent. _

Demoiselle—_young lady_

Galante—_a chivalrous man_

Merveilleux—_Marvelous_

Messire—_an honorable man or knight_.

Mlille pardon—_a thousand pardons_

Reinette—_a young girl-queen_

Oui—_Yes _

Non—_No

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_

_**France, some-odd years into Saya's thirty year sleep**_

He stared at the masterpiece with eyes impassive to all his thoughts; head erect in what many would deem uncomfortable. Hagi remained as such for nearly an hour, simply taking in the painting's design and feeling until he could absorb no more. He felt he understood its meaning, and yet it continued to enrapture him; holding its age old tale deep within its secret strokes and delicate brushes.

The Victorian background spoke of an era he was all too familiar with. It was yellowed and faded by design and in its center stood an exotic arrangement of unusual flowers upon a column. Even on canvas, it was breathtaking, and Hagi could only imagine what an elegant setting it would have made in person. Even the nobles of early France would have ogled at its beauty and would have sought it for their wives of whom would always have the very best from their husbands.

But it was not the extravagance of a masterful painting nor the aw of its beauty that it provoked that had captured the Chevalier's rapt attention so fully, but a single rose that had fallen from its place in the arrangement. The rose was slightly wilted, but still held the crimson color that was fancied by all. Still it seemed pale in comparison to its family in the bouquet and yet it held undeniable beauty of its own.

"_C'est Magnifique_, is it not?"

An old woman came to stand by his side, giving a brief glance toward the painting, then to Hagi whose eyes had shifted to stare at the first person who had dared to say anything to him all evening.

"_Oui_, it is."

She continued to stare at him with faded old eyes, urging him to give her his undivided attention.

"Can I help you?" He inclined his head.

The old French woman gave him a toothy grin; clutching the aged shawl tightly around her shoulders. "_Non_, you are just the first to give such attention and thought to this piece in a very long time."

Silence, it seemed, was the best answer to the woman's statement.

"Tell me," she said suddenly. "What is it that captures so?"

"It reminds me of someone."

The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she waved a crooked hand to the bench in front of the painting and sat, waiting for him to join her. "A _demoiselle_, perhaps? For I imagine a _beau_ man as you has already _enchantee _one."

A breezy, almost inaudible chuckle fell past Hagi's lips. "Oui it is of a demoiselle."

She slapped his knee playfully. "I knew it! Was it _coup de foudre_?"

"Yes and no. Either or, my love for her has had much time to grow; a century, it seems like."

The old woman gave him a peculiar glance, sensing the quiet irony in his voice as he spoke. She turned back to the painting, folding her hands quietly on her lap.

"And which do you think her: The rose or the bouquet?"

"The rose," he said softly.

The old woman faced him again, staring into his fathomless eyes and sensing his ancient sadness.

"There is a story," she breathed. "Behind this painting you see here. Do you have enough time to give an old woman chat? Well then, make yourself comfortable, young man. This story must be told properly.

_Aimee gave a weary sigh, casting a longing gaze about the window just over the artesian__lady's head. Briefly she wondered how her instructor would react if she were to hike up her skirts and escape this prison torture. Undoubtedly horrified. _

"_Aimee."_

_She wondered what mama would have for the evening meal. Tonight she had promised to eat with her, so had papa. _

"_Aimee!"_

_Madam White gave her that signature glare. Oops, she must have zone out again, Aimee realized._

"_Pacdon, Madam White, I missed your words. What were you saying?"_

_The Madam again graced Aimee with a cold, calculating look that forced her back to straighten and her shoulders to tighten. The horrid witch._

"_I said you must use delicate strokes in the case of darker colors," she gestured to the canvas with her bony fingers. "Or else you will overwhelm it with shadow."_

_Aimee bit her lip to hold in a frustrated sigh. Why oh why did all 'well proportioned' young ladies have to learn how to draw and how to paint? Aimee had absolutely no talent for it but her mama insisted upon it, saying that one day her husband would appreciate her feminine imagination. Her only response to that was_

"_Buh!"_

"Aimee, you see," said the old woman "was not what her parents would consider the ideal daughter. She tended to be brash and thoughtless in her words. She loved to run, to play, and had a kind spirit. And she was an absolute handful for her parents. But she had accepted her role in society. That is until she met Gabriel."

"_Your color is all wrong. You overwhelm it with pale colors."_

_Aimee, startled out of her revive, glared at the intruder who interrupted her focus and criticized her work. Purposely she had come out to the lake to avoid people and their snide comments. Gracious sakes, she never claimed to be a world renowned artist!_

_The man was tall. She would even go as far as to say he was broad and built for swordsmanship; he was rather handsome, too. Her anger overcame that last thought._

"_And who are you?" she said tersely. _

_His stoic face showed only the slightest hints of a smile as he answered her. "I am Gabriel." He gestured to the painting. "May I?"_

_Her only response was to step aside. Let the arrogant man think he was so good and maybe she could find a flaw in his technique!_

"_Your style is fare enough," he said. "And your painting has potential. But you overwhelm it with either vibrant colors or neutral ones. You have no darker shades. He smiled at her; a smile that held a secret. "There is nothing wrong with things dark. There," she followed the direction of his hand toward the lake. "You see how the very edge of the lake is a lighter gray than the middle? Or the reflection of the sun on its gentle ripples?"_

_Aimee watched in quiet disbelief as Gabriel doused certain areas of her painting with water and began to correct them as he saw fit. The result was amazing. "Mousier! How did you do that with just a few different colors?"_

_He smiled at her. "Moderation. The painting was already beautiful, I just brought that beauty out for the world to see."_

_She laughed. "And my instructor kept telling me not to overwhelm it with shadow."_

"_As said before, Mademoiselle, there is nothing wrong with things dark." _

The old woman paused to rub her wrinkled chin thoughtfully. "Yes, and like all stories they began to see more and more of each other until they eventually fell in love. It wasn't just a kiddy smitten love, either; Aimee would have done anything to remain by Gabriel's side forever. Her parents thought otherwise.

"_I forbid it, daughter."_

_Aimee glared at her father; frustrated tears slipping down her porcelain face. "You cannot stop me from seeing him, papa, I love him."_

_He rose from his chair, anger at his daughter's foolish declaration. "Do not speak such blasphemy in my house! He is a commoner—"_

"_He is an artist!"_

"_He is a filthy, grubby little commoner, feigning the look of a Messire, seeking his fortune through the hand the first nobleman's daughter gullible enough to take it!"_

"_So now I'm incompetent—"_

"_That's not what I said," he snapped_

"_That's exactly what you said, Papa. I've a mind of my own and will do as I please."_

_A moment of deafening silence befell them and father and daughter were left glaring at one another; trembling with anger. Her father's face morphed into disgust._

"_My god, you've become his whore…"_

"That night Aimee had a dream that Gabriel came to her as a captive of shadows."

"A captive of shadows?" Hagi asked and the old woman nodded solemnly.

"That is the one part in this tale that no one knows for sure what she saw; not even Aimee herself. My great-grandmother described Gabriel as a man gone mad. His skin had paled and his eyes had taken on a wild, hungry look, almost. When Aimee awoke she fled to his cottage under the cover of night.

_There was a strange noise coming from around the back of the house so Aimee was hesitant to approach the main door. There was a feeling in the air… a draining sensation that caused her insides to tremble. Something wasn't right._

_Gently she pried open the wooden window and it was all she could do to keep from gasping. Gabriel was wrapped tightly in the grip of a dainty black-haired woman. His head was lulled to the side as her mouth worked at the vain in the neck. It would have been a very sensual movement had not a stream of blood slid past her lips and down his shirt._

_This time she did gasp._

_The woman slowly pulled away from the crevice in Gabriel's neck to stare directly at her with luminescent blue eyes. The red substance slid down her chin and her tongue snaked out to catch it before it was wasted. She released her death grasp on her beloved and he fell limply to the ground; unmoving. _

_The woman/creature stood, a slow smile gracing her lips. "It's not polite to spy." She said and Aimee dashed was from the window and back to her home as fast as her bare feet could carry her. She was certain that she was being followed but nothing could be heard. Only when she reached her room and locked the windows and the door did she feel relatively safe. And only then did she allow the tears to come. In her heart she knew that the woman/creature had killed Gabriel. _

The woman quieted, eyeing the secret knowledge that was evident behind the gray eyes of the young man but said nothing of it.

"And what did she do after that?"

She turned her withered face back to the painting and inclined her head toward it. "That night she painted this; a rose that had fallen from grace. It has many representations. The rose is Gabriel who was touched and tainted by an unholy. And it is Aimee, cast out by her family for the disgrace growing inside her womb."

"And… Aimee is your ancestor?"

"Oui," she said, "and that story has been lost to all except my family. When I stop by here I try to make it a habit to tell at least one person of this humbling tale. Tell me, does it still remind you of your demoiselle?"

"Oui. More than you could possibly know."

…

The old woman left him to his thoughts, giving him her toothy grin as she left. Hagi's eyes focused back upon the precious painting, seeing it in a different—a darker light than before. The aging curls of the rose's petals had gone brown and with sadness it seemed to droop.

A story filled with pain, undoubtedly.

A story not unlike his own.

Hagi could easily see Saya as the wilting rose, defying her nature and fighting against it for the sake of all humanity. Cast down into a never ending battle, his Queen had suffered upon countless times and still she persevered. She was prepared to give her life for the sake of it all.

And he was prepared to give it all away for her.

The old woman's tale of Gabriel and Aimee had once again reminded him of the reason he and Saya fought for so long and so hard. It had been by Diva's hand that Aimee had lost her love and Gabriel his life. Diva would not be allowed to continue through the ages. She would be stopped.

But in many ways Hagi could see himself as Gabriel, a man of a lower sect in love with a woman of status. Though the painter's story was less complex than his own, their situations were a lot alike. Hagi loved Saya with all this being, in all the worth a Chevalier's feelings had. She was his friend, his companion, and his beloved that would never become as such. And like Gabriel's, his fate in the approaching war was painfully uncertain. But death, he was convinced, was inevitable. And he would do everything in his power to keep Saya alive—at the cost of his own, if necessary.

In the quiet of the museum a tiny sense of intuition flooded through him; a tingle one gets in their heart when it's been dead for so long and is resurrected by a beloved's smile. It was a feeling he only received once every thirty years; a sensation he waited and longed for; a premonition of the future that had taught him a great amount of patience and sensitivity.

Her mind was beginning to wake.

The Chevalier's eyes lingered on the paining before he lowered his face in reverence and made a small bow that was more of an incline of the head than anything else. It was his admission for the pain caused by his own kind in the lives of two innocents.

He left the museum walls and delved into the night like a creature of the shadows.

The War was beginning to resurrect itself, just as the sleep upon Saya was beginning to loosen its hated hold. Maybe this would be the fight that would finally stop Diva; the fight that would free Saya from her burden; the fight that would finally cease his patient waiting.

_Maybe…_

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Questions before you ask:

This takes place before the Blood Plus series and before Hagi knows that Saya has lost her memory. And it was my own imagination what Diva might have been doing in the days before the series and how Hagi relates himself to her victims.

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I am toying with the idea of doing a sequel and having it take place directly after the series and having Hagi revisit the paining but it all depends on how the feedback on this one is.

So if you liked it please drop a review and tell me your thoughts. Your words are what fuel my inspiration to write.

TDS


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